


After the Encore

by beezyland



Series: Time After Time: Romanogers AUs [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bassist!Bucky, Drummer!Clint, F/M, Guitarist!Steve, Keyboardist!Sam, Singer!Natasha, Smut, Tumblr Prompt, also sort of, and they are all loving assholes to each other, foreplay for days, harmonica dirty talk, harmonica kink, sort of, the band is family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 09:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11205363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beezyland/pseuds/beezyland
Summary: Guitar strings aren't all he's stroking.





	After the Encore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyfrenchfreudiana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/gifts).



> Prompt: Natasha is the lead singer and Steve is the guitarist in a band.
> 
> Unrelated to the other Romanogers rock band au I wrote. Also, I've written a rock band au for every fandom I've been apart of. Nothing this dirty, though. You know who to blame for this!

A dozen broken guitar strings, twelve lost picks, one lost shoe (Clint’s, naturally), nine cities, three months, a bunch of dudes and Natasha. What the hell was she thinking?

They’ve been a band for four years now, signed recording artists for two, and most of them have been writing and playing together since they were teenagers. They aren’t a household name, but this is their first time on the road as headliner, not just an opening act most of the people in the club or bar pay zero attention to.

Lead singer, Natasha Romanoff, knows how to hold the attention of the room. She knows how to dazzle and entrance. Most think it’s an It Factor you’re either born with or you’re not and she’ll let people believe whatever they want, but it’s a skill, something she worked very hard at for a very long time so it just looks easy. It hadn’t surprised her when they heard one of their songs (“Wrong Business”) on the radio for the first time and suddenly, strangers started asking personal questions about her. Natasha loves the music, but not at the expense of her privacy.

She isn’t in the business of giving herself to other people, much less strangers. Clint, her brother and the band’s drummer, is much the same way. The other boys have an easier time with the spotlight. Bucky’s natural charm turns up a notch in interviews, especially if the interviewer is a cute brunette with hipster glasses. Sam is charismatic to a fault, always happy to share an embarrassing story with little thought to repercussions, especially of the social media variety. Steve is on the reserved side, but he opens up with a little prompting from his bandmates. His story about his mother driving them to gigs at malls and county fairs upstate during the band’s infancy is immortalized on their Wikipedia page.

Natasha is completely fine with coming off as standoffish when it comes to “fans” who feel entitled to details of her private life. She likes the control. One of the few times she ever really lets go is when she’s onstage, singing and working the crowd, feeding off their energy. The people at the foot of the stage are jumping and dancing with abandon, singing along, singing words she wrote back to her. When the song ends, Bucky whomps out that last note and a few of the fans start throwing paper airplanes onto the stage.

“Sounds like everyone’s having an okay time,” Natasha says into her microphone. The crowd responds with wailing cheers. Sweat drips down the bit of skin exposed by the plunging neckline of her black drapey top as she bends over to pick up one of the paper airplanes and holds it up, raising an eyebrow at the crowd before spinning around to face the boys who are trading smiles. “Anyone wanna clue me in?”

“You see,” Sam speaks up from behind his red keyboard. He’s wearing a red and white bandana across his forehead and a Marvin Gaye t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “We were bored on the bus the other day so we live streamed a very intense paper airplane competition.”

Bucky, his chiseled chest and abs exposed and sweaty, leans toward a microphone stand and declares, “I won.”

He just oozes stage presence, his chrome bass guitar with a red star sticker hanging off his body. His fangirls who’ve been following them from city to city and always park themselves on Bucky’s side of the stage, go wild with high-pitch squeals. Any second now the bras and panties will hit the stage.

“Sit down, Pete Wentz,” Clint calls out from behind his purple drum kit. “There is clear internet proof I am the king of paper airplanes.”

“Dude!” Sam shouts. “You crumpled your paper into a ball and threw it! Even if it went farthest, that’s basically automatic disqualification. I’m just sayin’.”

“And where were you?” Natasha asks, looking over her left shoulder at Steve in his faithful brown leather jacket and faded Levis. He’s busy tuning his navy blue electric guitar with precise twists of his fingers, absorbed in his task like he isn’t on stage in front of a hundred people right now.

“Had 'is big mouth full o'  _cherry_ pie,” Bucky answers. “Steve loves his pie.”

“I’d argue he’s more into Russian tea cake these days,” Clint says, but away from his microphone so only the band can hear. Bucky roars with laughter soon drowned out by Clint slamming his drums with a _ba-dum-pump chsh_!

Natasha stares down at the paper airplane in her hand and notices there’s writing on the other side. What she sees after unfolding the plane makes her smile.

“What’s it say?” Steve asks, and she can feel his attention on her.

She meets Steve’s eyes for a brief moment before moving to the microphone. She clears her throat dramatically, getting a sprinkle of amused sounds from the audience. “ _Love you guys_ ,” she reads. Her eyes scan the audience as she says, “We love you too.” That elicits shouts of merriment. Natasha’s eyes fall back to the creased paper. “ _I’d love to hear how you became a band_.” Natasha laughs exasperatedly. “Well. It all started with Steve and Bucky.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “It started with you and Clint.”

“Step aside, guys, I’ve got this one,” Bucky says. Natasha indeed steps aside and motions to center stage, where Bucky happily takes the spotlight. Tangental banter and indulging questions from the audience is the sort of thing people expect when they come to see them perform.

“So,” Bucky says, “Steve and I have been pals all our lives. We must’ve been sixteen—seventeen, spent our summers running around like we owned Brooklyn. We _never_ went up to the Village, I mean _ever_ , but the one time we did—”

“Because Bucky pantsed a guy and he and his buddies chased us across the East River,” Steve interjects.

Pushing away the long strands of hair stuck to his cheek, Bucky narrows his eyes at Steve. “Only because you punched one of ‘em!”

“They were bullies.” Steve shrugs carelessly, staring down at his guitar.

“Anyway, we ended up in Washington Square Park and saw this redhead knockout singing there! Crowd gathered ‘round, dropping coins in her guitar case. I’ll be honest, I fell in love a little.”

“He’s exaggerating,” Natasha says quickly, cutting through all the _aw_ ’s heard around the room. Bucky grabs his heart through his chest and their audience eats it up.

“I fell in love, but only a little.” Bucky winks at his fangirls at the foot of the stage. Several of them swoon. “Stevie was too shy to even get within five feet of her, but not me.”

“No, never you,” Steve says.

“So I tried to talk to her and she pretty much gave me the cold shoulder—”

“Atta girl!” Sam thrusts a fist into the air. Anything to slight Bucky. Always.

“I told her I wasn’t trying to hit on her—I was. Then I dragged Stevie over, telling her all about our band. Steve really did play guitar. Taught himself when he was too sick to come outside and play ball. He had this little notebook he filled with lyrics about this British girl he had a crush on, but could never talk to. What was her name, Steve?”

Before Steve can say anything, a “no comment” or “drop it” maybe, Natasha steps up to her microphone and says, “Shout out to Peggy Carter, the hottest girl at Constance Billard School for Girls!”

There are catcalls from the fans, but the reaction isn’t as loud in DC as it probably would be back home in Brooklyn.

“You know what, Romanoff…” Steve murmurs, his eyes on her yet again. Natasha meets his stare with a smug smirk and bites her lip, welcoming whatever repercussions are to come. “Get on with your story, Buck.”

“Anyway, so I talked up Steve like he’s Scrawny Bob Dylan and Natasha still looked like she was calling bullshit on me, but then she took one look at this face—look at this face!” Bucky pinches Steve’s cheek like a distant family member with no respect for personal space. “She took one look at his face and she was sold. Who wouldn’t trust this face, right?”

The audience roars in agreement and Steve acknowledges the crowd, lifting a hand in gratitude.

“The second Natasha walked away, I turned to Steve and said, man, we gotta start a band. That’s the story.” Bucky smiles proudly. “Natasha and the old man on drums came as a package deal and Wilson…he just followed Steve into one of our practices like a puppy or something. He isn’t really in the band. We just let him think that so he doesn’t kill us in our sleep.”

“I arrange all the music and don’t you forget it, son,” Sam snaps.

“Are you dating now?” one of Bucky’s fangirls asks.

“Forget that!” a man shouts from deeper in the crowd. “We wanna know if you’re fucking!”

Sounds of encouragement erupt throughout the little venue. Natasha laughs, close to the microphone so it comes out louder than even she anticipated. She expects the boys behind her to laugh off the question too, but then she hears Bucky saying, “Nah, she’s already spoken for.”

The sounds from the crowd grow even louder, rowdier.

“Spoken for?” Natasha echoes. “What is this—the 1940s?”

“More like 2003,” Sam says. “Ladies and gentlemen, your eyes are not deceiving you. It isn’t the Molly. Barnes really is wearing just leather sleeves and he did steal that outfit from School of Rock.”

“Okay, kids, it’s time for another song.” Clint spins a drumstick in his hand because he’s a pro and all. “Let’s give the nice people what they paid for.”

“Sounds good,” Natasha says, pulling the microphone off the stand and holding it between both hands. “This song, Steve and I wrote together, actually. It’s called ‘The Soldier and the Spy’ off our newest album, The Winter Soldier…”

…

After playing a wild encore (including a Soviet Bitch cover), Sam and Bucky swear the adrenalin is too much and it always leads to them storming the streets of whatever city they’re in, right into the open arms of trouble. Clint packs up and makes a beeline to the bus so he can ice his hands and wrists and FaceTime with his wife and kids back home. First and foremost, after a long show, Natasha just wants to free her feet from the studded pumps she insists on wearing every performance.

She mourns her aching feet as she collects their things around the dressing room backstage, throwing guitar picks and Clint’s drumsticks into the open duffle bag on the counter against a wall of mirrors lined with lights. She picks up Steve’s harmonica from off the coffee table littered with empty water bottles and equally as empty beer bottles.

It’s a fancy harmonica. She wraps her fingers around the chrome plate and traces her thumb over the gold mouthpiece. Watching Steve play harmonica is an experience in itself. The way he uses his hands, the way his forehead pinches with effort and his face turns red from exertion. Then there’s _the sound._ The beautiful things that man can do with his mouth.

“Wanna learn?”

His question breaks the silence and catches her by surprise, which is ridiculous. No one sneaks up on Natasha Romanoff. She looks up from where she had apparently sat down on the couch and sees Steve peeking in through the doorway. He never mentions it, not directly because it’s a conversation they’ve already had, but he worries about her. As much as she loves performing, it’s too easy to remember how it really began. For her, at least. Memories of Clint and her living on the streets, singing and playing instruments for nickels and quarters, most of which went to abusive men who employed homeless children as street performers.

“Nat?”

Steve steps inside, pushing the door shut behind him. He lets his leather jacket slip down his arms and tosses it onto the couch. His plain white t-shirt comes off next, leaving him in one of his gloriously tight a-shirts. His hair is sticking up, which means he’s been messing with it, a habit when he’s anxious or wound up tight. This is more or less Steve after every performance. He never wants to go out after. Steve is always looking to get away from the spotlight. He always comes looking for her.

Steve Rogers had confused her for the longest time. In their youth, she thought he simply tolerated her because his best friend was infatuated with her. Steve who would carry around a sketchbook and draw to pass the time, but also scribble words, _lyrics_ she was always desperate for just a peek at. They would spend hours writing songs together in the park or walking around the city. She knew he had no idea she liked him, but also didn’t want to risk this band that became her escape. How could Steve not know that all those songs she’d written, songs Clint described as “downright piney” had without a doubt been about him?

“Nat?”

She blinks half-lidded eyes that had been locked on his lips, lost to her thoughts again. Thoughts of him, thoughts met with warmth and an even warmer, wetter reaction. Her eyes flicker up to his and she nods. “Teach me.”

Steve sits beside her on the couch and when his thigh presses into hers, she presses back. “The trick to getting solid rhythm is correct mouth position.”

Natasha chuckles, but Steve remains a hundred-percent serious. “Mouth position, huh?”

“Deep, relaxed mouth position.” When he takes the harmonica from her, their fingers brush. Such small contact shouldn’t make her shiver, but it does. Steve shows off a little, playing something she doesn’t recognize, but it sounds bluesy and incredible.

Usually, when he plays an instrument, it’s as if he enters his own little world where nothing else exists. He doesn’t feed off the energy of the crowd like the rest of them. His energy comes from within. Right now though, the way he keeps his eyes on her, the slow, sensual drag of his gaze over her body, surprises her as much as it excites her. When his eyes meet hers, his tongue darts out across his lips.

“Lick your lips,” he murmurs in a low voice that’s equally as surprising. Steve hears himself and almost looks shy, but she doesn’t want this to stop and she shows him by licking her lips just as slowly and sensually. She hopes he decodes the message. _I’m game_. “Good. Just like that.”

Oh fuck. She nearly listens to the wicked voice that hisses _forget the stupid harmonica! You know you’d rather something else between your lips…_ But if Steve wants to play a little… He presses the harmonica into her palm and carefully moves her fingers into the proper position around it, his touch so gentle even though his fingertips are rough and hard after years of perfecting his craft.

“You wanna hold the harmonica so the numbers are facing up and you use your other hand for the hand effects, which we’ll get to later…” He rearranges her fingers a little more until she gets it right. “There.”

“What happened to the mouth position you mentioned?” she asks.

“Patience.” He presses a light kiss to her shoulder and his hand slides up her throat and over her chin, his thumb stroking her lips slowly. She wants to feel more of him, but forced herself to stay still. If this is a game of chicken, she isn’t going to be the first to crash. If anything, they’ll crash together. “Now, you wanna position it deep in your mouth.” He guides her hand up, bringing the harmonica to her lips. “Relax. Good. Now rotate like this…yes. Just like that. Unfold your lower lip. No puckering, Nat. Good. Just make sure it’s touching the tender part of your inner lip. There. _Perfect_.”

It’s silent for a moment, the harmonica up against her mouth, partially _in_ her mouth. She can feel him and his intensity all around her. Natasha glances sideward and the way his dark, hungry eyes are staring at her, _admiring_ her nearly makes her whimper. Steve quickly looks away, face flushed, obviously aroused, and lets go of a deep breath she hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His thumb draws circles over the back of her hand before stealing away the harmonica and setting it aside.

Natasha turns to face him with a perplexed albeit amused expression. “Well, that lesson was shorter than anticipated.”

He picks up on her teasing and gives her a dry, totally adorable look in return. “We don’t need it for this next part.” Steve unceremoniously picks her up and pulls her into his lap and she bites her lip to keep from moaning. “Breathing is key. You need to learn to breathe from your belly.” One of his large hands slides over her hip, fingers splayed across her stomach. “It’s the key to your speed, control, tone and timing.” His other hand goes to her chest. “When you breathe, my hand on your chest should stay put and my hand on your stomach should move when you inhale and exhale…” She does as he asks, pretending to ignore that something hard pressing against her ass, a nearly impossibly task. “Good, Nat. You’re doing so good for me…”

Just as she finds a rhythm with her breathing, both of Steve’s hands start to move lower. His fingers try to wiggle beneath the waistband of her tight leather pants while the other squeezes her breast and she loses her breath entirely. Just then, loud laughter draws closer from outside. The door starts to open, Sam and a giggly woman or two. Natasha springs to her feet and her grand jeté across the room reminds her of yet another life, one of peering through the windows of dance studios, wanting to be as graceful and beautiful as the ballet dancers, wanting to be free.

“Find somewhere else to be, Wilson,” Natasha says, shutting the door in his face. Right on the other side is the hustle and bustle and break down after a show, a world all but forgot the moment Steve walked into the room. That’s been happening to her ever since she was a teenager, but more and more with much riskier repercussions lately.

“Damn!” Sam shouts, and maybe stomps his foot too. “How long have you two been—a _ll_ tour? _Before_ tour? Does everyone know, but me? Wait, is that why you bought Barton noise-cancelling headphones back in Philly? Why am I always the last to know these things? I’m starting to feel real under-appreciated here!”

“Who knew you were so fragile,” Natasha teases, her voice hoarse and breathy. “I—”

She feels Steve right behind her and forgets what she was saying. He’s big, so much bigger in comparison to her, but just his strong, unyielding presence even more so. Even when he was small, she had felt his spirit, strong and soaring. She loves knowing he’s just over her shoulder when they’re on stage. She loves feeling him. Most nights it’s a feat she doesn’t rub her thighs together like some silly wanton thing right there center stage when she catches sight of him, fingers fretting and strumming, his skin changing colors under multi-colored club lights, looking like something extraterrestrial and so hot.

“Goodnight, Sam,” Steve says, his voice firm and a lot frustrated. Sam had been going on and on this entire time and Natasha hadn’t even heard, spellbound by the feel of Steve’s firm chest right against her back. Steve bends his head over her shoulder and presses an achingly soft kiss to her neck as those talented fingers of his play with her hard nipples. She tilts her head back, leans into him, gives herself to him, and she can’t help but think, what a pretty picture they must make.

“We should…head back to the bus now,” Steve says gruffly. “Before…”

But there is no before. It’s too late.

“No,” Natasha whines. God, she _whines_. But there’s no time to contemplate what that might mean for her rocker image. Her hand darts out and gropes the doorknob, flicking the lock shut. “Steve, _now_. I need you, _please_ …”

Fuck, she knows she’s laying it on thick, but fuuuuck, it works. His hands close around her hips and yank her hard against him, a moment of control lost, and now she really feels his erection pressed against the small of her back. His lips move across her neck with wet, suckling kisses and all Natasha can think to do is hold on, bringing her hand up around his neck, through his short, blonde hair, over his jaw that’s been cut from marble. One of her hands closes around his. She kisses the callouses on the tips of his fingers, the price of being a dedicated guitarist, before sucking two of his thick fingers into her mouth and moaning.

“Fuck, Nat,” Steve says, sounding wrecked already. And she loves it, loves his sharp exhale and the little smirk she can feel right against her ear. “Are you ready for the next part of our lesson?” Steve pants softly, his breath a hot blast against her skin and god, if she isn’t already burning up. “Next I’ll show you how to hit a single note.”

“Just one?” Natasha pulls off his fingers and pushes her ass back against him, rolling her hips. “This is awkward. I had higher expectations, St—” She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, crying out because all of a sudden, she’s turned around, those hands of his gripping her thighs, hoisting her against him and moving over to the counter. Someone jiggles the doorknob, but every potential problem other than the fact that they’re both still dressed seems unimportant, nonexistent, especially with the way he’s kissing her. Every time she tries to come up for air, he chases her lips and brings her back under, a blissful kind of drowning.

Everything is going too slow. She needs more, she needs faster, she needs him inside her. Her hands roam beneath the white a-shirt that clings to his body like a second skin. She trails wet kisses up his neck and over the sharp angles of his jaw, whimpering when he squeezes her breasts through her top.

“Just take it off already,” she all, but orders.

He groans softly, his thumbs gently tracing her nipples with deliberate contrast. “You weren’t wearing a bra on stage?”

She smirks, gripping his hair between her fingers just to feel the short, soft strands slip away. “Like you didn’t notice. Why else would people come to see us?”

Steve pulls away enough so he can see into her eyes, his lips wet and so red. The look on his face and the way it makes her feel is what centuries of musicians have tried to capture in words and melodies and rarely come close to. It’s like some philosopher said, the closer you get to pure beauty, the harder it is to represent. Music is always about the chase anyway.

“People come to see us because of your voice and your lyrics,” Steve says, like it’s _fact_. His mouth returns to her neck, teeth scraping over her skin salty-sweet with sweat. “Because you make millions of girls believe they can conquer the world despite what the world tells them…” He presses a chaste kiss to her shoulder, then bites down, making her whimper and cling to him tighter. “And your leather pants.”

Natasha laughs, feeling crazed and feverish, shivering at his feather light touch dancing along the waistband of said leather pants. “ _Steve_. I’m not asking twice.”

“Yes, m—” This time his words get cut off by her lips, insistent and maybe a little demanding. His fingers fumble with her leather pants, but he manages to pop the button free pretty easily. He tugs on the zipper, but it won’t budge. Steve pulls away to glare at the offending zipper, gripping each side of the leather and tugging, ripping the slider off completely. Steve goes completely still and looks up at Natasha like a small child in big trouble and she just laughs.

“What’s the lesson here?” she asks, lifting her hips so she can wiggle out of the leather. “How to ruin a pair of my favorite pants?”

“I have been working out lately.” Steve grins, helping her to peel the skin-tight black leather from her legs. Oh, she’s noticed. “Not as bad as the chair we broke backstage in Baltimore.”

Natasha pulls off her top, tossing it to the floor. “Your foreplay’s gotten better since the time on the tour bus, I’ll give you that.”

“You can’t judge that! Bucky was sleeping in the bunk right below us!” Steve takes a shaky breath as his eyes rove over her body, from her bare breasts to her damp red panties. He’s seen her in various stages of dress before, but every single time the pure awe shows on his face without fail. And she will hold on to him until the day that look fades and, god, she hopes it never does. “Perfect.”

Natasha hums, pulling him closer by the waistband of his jeans. “Hurry up before we get caught. We don’t want a repeat of the time in the hotel pool in Philly.”

“Don’t we?”

Goose pimples break out all along her arms at the thought of someone seeing them like this, her unzipping his jeans (without incident), hearing the sound she makes when she has him hot, hard and ready, twitching in her hand. That’s another thought for another day and possibly another city.

“Nat,” Steve groans her name, sliding his hand between them. Her face scrunches in anticipation, indulging in the way his fingers push her panties aside and slide right into her. “So wet…”

“No kidding.” Natasha purses her lips and shifts her hips. “Th-thanks to all that dirty harmonica talk and when you shoved it in my mou— _uh_ —”

She quickly loses track of everything other than the way Steve holds her close and treats her like he’s putting on a private concert for one. Natasha desperately presses against his hand and what starts out as little touches and quiet moans quickly grows to a crescendo of fast strokes and Natasha screaming out as she comes. She digs her nails into his back, letting the feeling carry her away, a high better than any drug, better than the stage. Natasha opens her heavy eyes to the sight of him sucking his wet fingers into his mouth.

“Condoms,” she hisses, giving his cock a squeeze. “In the duffle.”

Steve slides the duffle bag closer and rummages inside. He looks so impatient and knocks the whole thing over so all their junk spills onto the floor, but not before holding up the foil packet triumphantly. She _giggles_ and would probably feel embarrassed in front of anyone else, but Steve is such a beautiful dork. Without even realizing, he reassures her that there’s no need to hide from him, no need to be anything less than genuine because he’s the exact same way with her.

Giggles turn to a drawn-out, husky groan as Steve pulls her by her thighs until her ass is just at the edge of the counter. He yanks her panties off without fumbling, determined to get rid of the bit of lace separating him from what he wants. Once her red panties join her ripped pants on the floor, he lines up his cock and pushes into her.

Her head snaps back and hits the mirror she forgot was behind her. Steve buries a hand into hair and massages the back of her head as he buries himself deeper inside her. He lets her steal one deep breath, one moment of stillness, before he starts thrusting into her over and over. His jeans are bunched up at his ankles and she still has her heels on. Neither seems to notice anymore, not when Steve draws further back and his hips snap forward and harder. She moans against his broad shoulder, lips running over every inch of his skin in reach.

Fuck, she loves this. She loves everything about this, everything about _him_. The way he feels inside of her, makes her feel so fucking full, the way he moves, fast and deep and enthusiastic. The sound of skin against skin is all she hears in this room, this tiny blimp on a map where only the two of them exist. She hopes he knows, wants to show him, rotating and grinding her hips, meeting his thrusts in a way that has him wrapping her up in his strong arms as they rock together with heedless abandon.

She knows Steve’s close when his movement becomes more urgent, erratic. Natasha twists her fingers through his, pressing their hands into the counter below her and kissing him deeply. He grunts against her parted lips, his entire body shuddering as he comes inside her. Steve heaves a seemingly endless stream of heavy breaths as Natasha shuts her eyes and presses her forehead to his shoulder, mesmerized by the sound of him even now.

“Pretty sure they know what we’re doing in here,” Natasha laughs. “No property damaged this time, though.”

“Not done yet.” Steve tosses the condom, then kicks his shoes off and tries to do the same with his jeans, hopping and flailing a little when they catch around his ankles. Natasha leans back, enjoying the show as Steve fights off yet another offensive inanimate object then falls to his knees. He hikes her left leg up over his shoulder and takes the ankle of the other, setting one of her black studded pumps atop his shoulder and pressing the tip into his skin. She bites her lip, imagining the mark it’ll leave.

“ _Steve_.”

He mumbles a response, incoherent yet clearly sassy, trailing kisses from her calf to the inside of her thigh. Natasha catches sight of the two of them in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. She knows most consider her beautiful and she _knows_ Steve is more than worthy of the title Perfect Male Specimen. Together, they look like art. Her eyes trace the lines of Steve’s back, over his bulging muscles and down to the curve of his round ass. Once he starts licking, flicking and fucking teasing between her legs, she shuts her eyes, surrendering to pleasure. Natasha gasps when his thumb finds her clit, running in tight, determined circles. His tongue swipes at the mixture of him and her, and her hips jump, the hard tips of her heels scraping down his back.

One of his hands spreads out over her stomach just as it had when he was teaching her how to breathe. She thinks to tease him about his _deep mouth position_ now, but then their eyes meet and hold. When he sucks her clit into his mouth and sucks hard, she lets go. Natasha comes with a whiny little cry, eyes shut tight and every part of her shaking. He helps her through it, holds her tight, and she trusts he knows this time around, knows she's fucking in love with him.

When Natasha finds it in her to open her eyes, just barely, she sees Steve, hair completely askew, eyes so damn bright, and his mouth wet, wet with her, wet with _them_. There’s no trace of that self-consciousness she used to see after previous nights like this one, no guilt over what they did and where they did it. Without thinking, Natasha grabs his chin and kisses his lips. She could write songs about his lips. It’s hard to not appreciate the life she lives now, traveling the country, writing and singing with and about this man who looks at her like he just fell in love with a song and knows it’s going to be his favorite for the rest of his life.

“Security!” a gruff voice shouts from the other side of the dressing room door. “We need you outta here! Some of us got families we wanna go home to!”

“Sorry!” Steve shouts, living up to the swell All-American image the public has of him. How right yet wrong they are. “Just a minute!”

Steve stumbles back into his jeans, hopping and fighting his way in as Natasha watches. He swipes Natasha’s top and her torn pants off the floor, looking up with another apology on his face. Natasha slips back to her feet, still wearing the damn pumps, grabs Steve’s plain white t-shirt off the couch and slips it over her head as Steve drags his a-shirt down his body.

They clean up and collect their things before opening the door to find a thin, white-haired security guard on the other side, giving them an impatient look from behind rectangle glasses. Steve mutters a sorry as they slip past him and head to the back exit.

“Hold on!” the security guard shouts, making them freeze. Steve and Natasha both look back and find the man chasing after them with something in his hand. “You almost forgot your harmonica!”

It’s particularly dim in the hallway so Natasha can’t see Steve’s face, but she knows he is red and knowing is enough. Steve takes the harmonica, mumbling a quick thank you. Natasha has the biggest smile on her face as she grabs Steve by the hand and drags him all the way back to the tour bus.

**Author's Note:**

> The very next day, they’re on the road again. Steve’s stretched the best he can in one of the compact little bunks, no shirt on, and Natasha half-draped atop him, yawning lazily. Bucky was the first to realize what was between them (“C’mon, it was obvious when she wasn’t into me”), Clint was the first to hear more between them (“Oh come on! We just left New York and I gotta deal with this? Noise-cancelling headphones! Next stop, you’re getting me some, the fancy kind too!”) and since Sam knows now, it takes all the fun out of tiptoeing around the band. 
> 
> “Is that a bruise or something?” Bucky asks, walking down the aisle while shaking a metal canister. “On your shoulder.” 
> 
> Steve glances over and spots the small bruise that’s a perfect circle. “Huh. No idea.”
> 
> Natasha shifts so she can hide her smile against Steve’s chest. She glances over when she has her expression in check and reaches up to rub her thumb over the bruise. “Hmm. Where _did_ this come from?” 
> 
> Steve narrows his eyes at her, not that Bucky is paying either of them any attention. He crouched down to where Sam is asleep in the bunk across from the one Steve and Natasha are stuffed into. Bucky presses on the nozzle of the canister, spraying a big glop of of shaving cream into Sam’s open palm. Natasha shakes her head and Steve holds back a laugh as they watch Bucky tickle Sam’s ear. Sam goes to scratch his ear and smacks the whole hand of shaving cream all over the side of his face. And he doesn’t even wake up. Bucky rolls on the ground with laughter and takes a dozen photos with his phone. 
> 
> Natasha stretches with a lazy groan, hooking her leg over Steve’s, her thumb still circling his bruise over and over. “Hurts?” she asks quietly. 
> 
> “Nah.” Steve kisses her forehead. “I wouldn’t mind doing it again…” 
> 
> Natasha pulls Steve into a real kiss as she straddles his hips, careful not to hit her head on the ceiling. Without breaking the kiss, she grabs the little privacy curtain and pulls it shut, blocking out anything and everything outside their little bunk. 
> 
> “Am I the only one who misses when they thought they were being sneaky?” Bucky asks loudly. 
> 
> “I don’t know,” Clint mutters. “When they thought they were being sneaky, the rest of you out voted me and the ode to Steve’s dick made the album, but what do I know? I got snazzy headphones outta it.” 
> 
> “One of the songs on our album is about Steve’s dick?” Bucky asks, genuinely horrified. “Which of our songs is about Steve’s dick?” 
> 
> “OH SHIT!” Sam shouts, startling Natasha into bumping her head on the ceiling. “What the hell is this all over my face? WHAT THE HELL? BARNES!” 
> 
> Steve chuckles, bringing his fingers up into Natasha's hair and rubbing the back of her head. The sound of it is barely heard over Bucky’s boisterous laughter and Sam’s heavy footsteps stomping all the way to the back of the bus. 
> 
> “How much longer are we stuck on this bus with these idiots?” Natasha asks. 
> 
> “Five more cities and about another month,” Steve replies. “We’re getting our own room in Pittsburgh even if I have to pay for it myself. Fury's budget be damned.” 
> 
> “Such a gentleman.” Natasha leans down and kisses him, tugging on his bottom lip with her teeth. “Can’t wait.”


End file.
